Dust bowl dance
by Shari Aruna
Summary: [Allison/Lydia; Post S3A] In her dream the world was so old it looked young again, and the tree was alive, and powerful, and hungry. In her dream there was a creature trapped inside the tree. Her face barely emerged from the trunk and her body was melted into the bark; her hair was leaves in the wind and the tears on her cheeks tasted like sap.


In her dream the world was so old it looked young again, and the tree was alive, and powerful, and hungry.

In her dream there was a creature trapped inside the tree. Her face barely emerged from the trunk and her body was melted into the bark; her hair was leaves in the wind and the tears on her cheeks tasted like sap.

The creature opened her eyes, startling all the trees and plants around her. She felt the danger approaching. The smell of death ─ a damp smell, like mud and wet grass, and an old smell, like the oak trees that surrounded her ─ was getting stronger. She hated that smell, but at the same time it drew strength to her.

So she blinked a few times, driving away the last crumbs of sleep, then she began to break free, stretching the two limbs that were her arms, and arching her back as much as possible, causing a small rain of bark's pieces all around her. The leaves quivered, whispering in the wind, and the trees shook their branches, also whispering. But the creature refused to listen.

After parting herself from the tree, she walked deeper into the woods, moving speedily through the ferns and the hidden roots. The scent of the wild mint mixed with the jasmine's intoxicated her a little more with every step she took, so strong it could almost cover the subtle but constant stench of decomposition that hovered everywhere.

The creature didn't know where she was going, but she kept walking, naked, with the hair of the color of autumn leaves loose on her shoulders, and with red eyes wide open in the night.

It was a beautiful night to die, she thought, slowly turning her scarlet gaze at the sky studded with stars. The moon was as round and silvered as a coin, and it seemed just as cold. All around her the leaves rustled in the night wind, small rodents rattled in the undergrowth, and in the most hidden shadows the glowing yellow eyes of owls and other, far more dangerous animals, followed her.

At last she came to the place where now she knew she had to be, and was not surprised at all.

The place that a voice in her head still recognized as "Beacon Hills" was now only a village of huts, inhabited by shepherds and farmers. Once upon a time there was a city there, and shops and roads, and computers and civilization, but what remained now was just the forest and the dust and the memories of a world destroyed too quickly.

Her gaze wandered around for a while, almost remembering, before finally settling on the nearest house, built right on the edge of the clearing. A single lamp shone on the porch, partially lightening the figure of a man with his face hidden in his hands. His shoulders were shaking so hard that it hurt just to look at him.

And the creature looked at him for a long time, confused. Had she come for this, then? She doubted it. She began to cry anyway, because she knew the man, she knew his family, and they all knew death was coming. Their grief was hers.

At first the creature cried with soft sobs, then she moaned higher and higher, until a single, painful scream broke the silence of the night like a thunder.

The huntress found her just then, while she was slumped on the cold ground, her face hidden in her hands, the sap slipping slowly through her fingers, strange tears scented like flowers.

In her dream the huntress had a weapon in her hand. A weapon that no one had seen in a long time: a gun made of bronze and gold and silver steel that shined in the moonlight.

In her dream the creature stretched out her hand, crying, trying to explain that it was not her fault, knowing that the other didn't care.

In her dream the huntress aimed with her cold and merciless brown eyes, and fired without hesitation.

In the dream the banshee died, crying for her own death.

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In the real life Lydia woke up with an excruciating headache, the sheets tangled all around her body like ropes, and with the vague feeling that she'd eaten too much ice cream the night before.

Beside her Allison was still asleep, apparently undisturbed by her friend's nightmares. For a moment, while she was looking at her, Lydia felt a cold shiver down the spine, and some fragments of the dream suddenly returned to her mind. Blood and tears and trees and guns. The smell of the soil. The echo of a scream that was still buzzing in her ears.

The bad feeling left as soon she closed her eyes again, but she continued to shudder without knowing why.

"Are you okay?", Allison asked sleepily.

Lydia just nodded.

"I am angry with you", she informed her, arranging the sheet and slipping back under it.

Allison yawned.

"For a particular reason or just because you woke up like this?", she inquired, turning on her side and putting her arm around Lydia's waist.

Lydia relaxed in the embrace, comforted by the warmth of the other girl. Nightmares like that were a rare occurrence now, so ─ even if she would never admit it ─ she was glad that Allison agreed to sleep over that very night.

"The second", she answered. "But also because you snore in your sleep", she lied shamelessly.

She fell asleep a few minutes later, smiling, while Allison still protested, offended and outraged, that she didn't snore at all, and that if Lydia'd ever tried to say something like that in front of Scott, Isaac and the others, she'd have ripped off her curls with her own eyebrows tweezers.

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─ Just messing around with mythology, I know that banshees have nothing to do with trees, I just liked the idea. Plus I recently found out I have a kink for femslash and steampunk, better if together. So here we are.

─ Sadly english is still not my mother tongue, so if you spot any mistake please let me know :)

─ Written for the Genetics Fest fanfic_italia, prompts Steampunk liv.1 + plants liv. 2 (sap) + Elemental (Earth), and for 500themes_ita, prompt # 47. A dream, a lifetime.


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